


it will come back

by witchofspaz



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Incest, Jealousy, M/M, Sex Work, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Uncle/Nephew Incest, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2020-06-30 14:28:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19855114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchofspaz/pseuds/witchofspaz
Summary: Dave Strider is happy in his career as an exotic dancer, and definitely not looking for a relationship, but when the uncle he didn't know he had reaches out, he's cautiously open to it.Dirk Strider is only looking for the family connection he's never had when he tracks down his long-lost brother's grown-up kid. He doesn't expect to find his nephew so beautiful, or so fragile. He can't take his eyes off him, and soon realizes there's not much he wouldn't do for Dave—or put up with.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is rly dear to me as my wildly self-indulgent "i'm depressed so i'm gonna make dave a Huge Mess and inflict that on dirk" au so i've put a lot of thought and planning into it and i hope y'all like it ;v;
> 
> big ups to my dearest bestest friend laura ([centaur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/centaur/pseuds/centaur) on here pls read her fic it's amazing) for being my beta and writing a bit of this chapter for me before i decided i wanted to take on this monster all by myself, as well as writing one of the best jokes in this chapter. i love u bb  
> thx also to hibi for being my friend and cheering me on while i wrote this !!! dang

Your name is Dirk Strider, and your first thought upon meeting your nephew is that he’s remarkably attractive. Your second is to wonder if that assessment is inherently narcissistic on your part; the resemblance is immediately evident. You can’t help but catalogue Dave’s features in direct comparison to your own. His lips are fuller, the angles of his face gentler. His hair is the fairest shade of platinum blonde you have ever seen, in contrast to your brassier tones. It looks softer too, finer. You’d like to touch it and find out, but that seems like a less than kosher urge.

“So how’d you track me down, anyway? P.I.?” Dave is saying, tapping his fingers on the table in a distinct rhythm. He doesn’t seem to be aware he’s doing it.

You shrug, grateful that whatever of your scrutiny is evident through your shades can and probably will be attributed to purely familial motivations. You’re not as disturbed as you suspect you should be by the distinctly _non_ -familial flavor of your reaction to the first blood relative you’ve encountered in approximately twenty-five years, but you file that thought away for later examination.

“Nah. Waste of money. It wasn’t exactly difficult to do it myself.” Dave raises an eyebrow, and your cheek twitches. “You know the Internet is a thing, right?”

“No, what the fuck is that?” His affect is impressively flat. Apparently that’s a family trait. 

“A series of tubes, I think.” You’re trying to make him laugh, and your motives are more than half based in wanting to know what it sounds like. The other 30% is wondering if it will help him relax. The lines of his body appear nonchalant to a casual eye, but no part of you has ever been anything close to casual, and you can see the tension he’s trying to hide.

He doesn’t laugh, but his lips twitch. “So you’re an expert.” He pushes his hair back with one hand, and you notice a small tattoo on the inside of his wrist. His ears are extensively decorated with silver-toned jewelry, his lobes stretched around modestly sized gages.

“It is kind of my job.”

“Oh, no shit? What do you do?”

“Programming. Mostly freelance.”

“Cool, cool.” He fidgets in his chair, takes a sip of his heavily creamed and sugared coffee. There are more scars on his arms than tattoos, most the kind that might result from being cut by a very sharp blade. You get the impression he fidgets often. You are comfortable with silence, and let him work up to whatever he wants to say. “So, do you know about my job already then?” he asks finally. “Since you like, looked me up on the internet? I’m guessing you found more than just my name and phone number.”

“I may have seen a few things,” you own cautiously.

“I’m good at it,” he says, and you want to laugh, because it’s such an odd and endearing choice of defensiveness, but you don’t think he’d take it the right way.

“I believe you are,” you say instead, and regret the words immediately because it almost sounds flirtatious. It seems to put him at ease, though, and the nervous tension in his muscles relaxes slightly. “Do you enjoy it?”

He looks like he’s surprised but trying not to show it. “Yeah, I mean.” He gestures elaborately and meaninglessly. “It’s fun. Lucrative. What’s not to like.”

“Then…” You pause, considering your words. “I don’t know if you’re worried over what I think about it, but don’t be. I don’t give a shit as long as it’s what you wanna be doing.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, like he’s not used to that kind of acceptance. “Cool, then, I guess.” He’s been looking at you oddly for a while now. Even behind his shades you can tell that he’s sneaking glances at you, like he thinks it wouldn’t be acceptable to just look you in the eye—or like he doesn’t want to.

“Is there something on my face?” you ask neutrally.

Dave blushes—his skin is paler than yours, and it’s quite visible—and looks away. “Sorry. Guess I didn’t expect you to look so much like him, is all. Not sure why.”

“Do I?” That makes you feel a little odd. “I don’t even know what he looked like. I was in foster care by three, so there weren’t exactly family pictures around.”

Dave shrugs. “I don’t have any either. He wasn’t really a family picture sort of dude.”

It is possible that you are reading too much into this, but Dave’s tone is making you concerned about what sort of dude your late brother _was_. 

“You wanna know what he was like, I guess.” A logical assumption, given that you were just now wondering that very thing. He crosses his arms and doesn’t look at you. It is enough to put you off of that trail. He’s clearly blocking your access with his body language, and you get the feeling he wouldn't tell you much if you tried to push past. 

“I’m actually more interested in knowing what _you_ are like.” You shrug in the same way he did moments ago.

He looks almost surprised, and his body language loosens up, like your interest caught him off guard. “Oh.” He pushes his shades up his nose. “What… do you want to know?”

There is a lot you already know, but that is probably best not to share in case it creeps Dave out. Still, you don’t really want to pretend not to know the answer to basic questions, so you go for something safer. “What’s your favorite food?”

His responding snort is uncannily familiar. You’ve heard it many times from your own nose. “Apple juice,” he says decisively.

You can feel your brows instinctively lift. “... Food?” you try again, almost hesitant to quibble with the way Dave confidently fired off his answer.

“Apple juice is food,” he insists, and his brows draw together over his shades, making him look adorably put out. Your response to this is surely avuncular and nothing more. “It’s made of apples. Apples are food.”

“Can’t argue with that logic.” You shrug to hide the fact that you absolutely could argue, if you wanted, which you don’t.

“Is that all you got for me, man? Your long lost li’l nephew you spent all that time trackin’ down? That’s your deepest cut?” Dave has a slender frame, but you can see defined muscles in his arms as he leans back and crosses them over his chest. There’s a ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Favorite food.”

“Naw, man, I’m just trying to ease in. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

“True, true. So hit me again, homes.”

“Okay.” You lean back in your chair, steepling your fingers under your chin. “Fuck, marry, kill. Team Rocket.”

He’s smiling for real now, openly delighted, and you’re almost sure you see a glint of silver on his tongue—another piercing. “Shit dude, obviously I’d fuck Meowth.”

You toast him with your coffee. “The only valid answer,” you agree, even though you wish he’d answered for real, because for some reason you feel like you need to know what kind of people he likes.

“That’s really all you wanna know? That kind of surface shit? It’s cool,” he amends hurriedly, like he’s embarrassed to expect more. “I just figured... I dunno, like… I got a sister, you know? Half. She’s not related to you.”

You shift in your chair slightly. “Yeah, I know,” you admit finally, because you find yourself wanting to be uncharacteristically honest with him. “I know a lot of stuff about you already. I didn’t want it to be weird. I kind of wanted you to be the one who got to tell me shit about you, but it’s weird to pretend I don’t know stuff, too.”

“Okay.” Contrary to your fears, your honesty seems to make him relax. “So tell me what you already know.”

You blink at him, and push your shades up your nose, and start small. “You’re twenty-three years old—five years younger than me. You dance at Hard Bodies, and at private events.” He nods once. “Your professional name is Dick McStuffins, which I personally dig.”

“Hey, thanks, bro.”

“You’re welcome. Your sister’s name is Rose, and she’s seventeen. Her dad isn’t in the picture.”

“She just calls him ‘the sperm donor’,” he puts in, and you smile slightly. You suspect you would get along with Rose, blood relative or no.

“Your mother’s name is Roxanne Lalonde. She’s a geneticist. Since your sister is a minor, and you’re close enough for her to be your first pull when it comes to major life shit, I’m assuming you have a relationship with your shared parent, too.”

“You assume correctly, but actually, Rose found me on her own when she was thirteen. She didn’t tell her mom about it till a lot later.” His choice of possessive pronouns is interesting.

“Was that your choice, or hers?”

“Hers.”

You hum acknowledgement, and move on. “My brother died when you were nineteen. You dropped out of college after that.”

“Not right away, but not long after, yeah. I’d started dancing to pay for it, kept dancing after I dropped out.”

You nod in the same way he just did, then tilt your head. “He didn’t leave you anything?”

“No, he stockpiled cash, among other things. Left all of it to me. I didn’t really want to use it.” Logically, this should be an emotional subject, but he sounds almost bored.

“Okay.” You pause before continuing cautiously. “There’s not a lot of documentation on you from early childhood, aside from your birth certificate.”

“Nope.”

Okay, that’s clearly a dead end, and you’re certain now that whatever your late older brother was like, he didn’t leave his son with fond memories. You push your shades up your nose, open your mouth, close it, then decide to speak after all. “You said I look like him.”

“Yeah.”

“Does… that bother you?” You hate how vulnerable your voice sounds. You like Dave immensely already, and you’re hungrier for family than you’d care to admit even to yourself.

He looks surprised by the question. “Dunno,” is his immediate response, but then he seems to be considering it. “I guess you picked up on I wasn’t exactly daddy’s little boy. It’s weird, but…” He scratches the back of his head. “You ain’t him, I can see that. He wouldn’t’ve asked me that question, for starters.”

“Oh.” You feel oddly warm. “Okay, cool.”

==>

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 18:17 --  
  
TT: How did it go with dear Uncle?  
TG: jesus dont call him that  
TG: hes not even your uncle  
TG: hes barely my uncle  
TT: That’s an interesting statement.  
TT: Walk me through your logic on that.  
TG: he doesnt even remember my bro  
TG: or my grandparents who apparently existed  
TG: and hes not old  
TG: hes like  
TG: my age  
TG: basically  
TT: Neither strictly requirements to merit the title of uncle, Dave.  
TG: whatever  
TG: it went fine  
TG: hes cool i guess  
TG: basically how i expected him to be but also not really at all how i expected him to be  
TG: i invited him to come see me dance  
TT: Dave.  
TG: what  
TT: That seemed an appropriate activity to share with a blood relative?  
TG: sure why not  
TT: ...  
TT: Never mind.  
TT: I’m glad it went well.  
TG: thanks sis

**== >**

\-- tipsyGnostalgic[TG] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 21:34 --  
  
TG: so????  
TT: So what?  
TG: howd it go?  
TG: you were so worried about it and then i dont hear a peep from u after  
TT: I wasn’t worried.  
TG: lol ok  
TT: It went fine.  
TT: He’s funny. I like him.  
TT: I only talked to him for an hour or so, but I feel like there was a connection there.  
TT: He invited me to see him perform on Friday.  
TG: perform??  
TG: oh shit you mean strip  
TG: are u going???  
TT: Of course.  
TG: i dunno dirk  
TG: are u sure thats a good idea  
TT: Why wouldn’t it be?  
TG: idk bc hes ur nephew  
TG: aka a blood relative  
TG: aka the only family youve got  
TG: and maybe you dont wanna fuck that  
TG: *up  
TT: You’re my family, Roxy.  
TG: awwww ur so sweet dirk <3  
TG: and so full of shit  
TT: I don’t know what you’re referring to.  
TG: ya you do  
TG: but i know better than to push when ur bein like this  
TG: just be careful ok dirk?  
TT: Sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fyi roxy isn't related to mom and rose she just Exists, Somehow


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which the self-indulgence factor of this fic grows exponentially
> 
> i can't promise any kind of regular publication schedule esp bc sometimes my ability to write just Disappears but imma try y'all

You always take a lot of care with your appearance, but Friday night, as you’re getting ready to visit Dave’s club, you find yourself taking an extra half an hour longer than usual with your routine. This is normal, you think. You hardly know each other yet, and it’s only natural to want to make a good impression. Looking well put-together when you go to see Dave at his work will demonstrate that you respect him and what he does.

It’s dusk when you pull into the surprisingly respectable-looking parking lot, but still warm and sticky out—a typical summer night in Texas. You sit in your car for a few minutes, staring at the garish neon sign blinking over the entrance. Roxy is worried over nothing, you think decisively. Sure, this isn’t exactly a traditional family activity, but nothing about your collective family situation has ever been traditional to begin with. Besides, you’re a grown man. You can handle yourself.

Cool air hits your face as you enter the air-conditioned club. It’s dim inside, everywhere except the stage, where a dancer appears to be in the late stages of his act. The bar looks well-stocked, and you order a drink to take the edge off. Not that there’s much of an edge to take off in the first place, of course. This is fine. There’s a pretty heavy crowd, you suppose unsurprisingly for a Friday night, but you manage to find a seat at a small, empty table, a little farther from the stage than you would have liked. Disinterested in the man still performing, you study the people around you instead. It’s a pretty healthy mix of men and women, you note. Many appear to be intoxicated, and a few visibly nervous.

The dancer makes his big finish and exits the stage. Dave should be next, if the time he gave you was accurate. You tune out the emcee’s lackluster segway until you hear Dave’s stage name boom from the loudspeakers, and your eyes lock on the stage as your nephew struts out from behind the curtain.

You can see immediately that he wasn’t talking out of his ass about being good at his job. The slight anxious energy he’s radiated constantly during your admittedly brief acquaintance is nowhere in evidence. He moves confidently, sinuously. His costume, to your mild disappointment, is what you guess to be a pretty standard initial getup for a male stripper—a classic black tux.

He does not dance like a standard male stripper, or at least not like the acts you watched on Youtube as preparatory research. He’s fluid, a little feminine as he slinks out of his jacket, letting it drop to the stage. The vest follows. You take a too-big gulp of your screwdriver as he lets his shirt slide down bare shoulders, so you’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or the way his skin glows under the lights that’s making you dizzy. The crowd around you is cheering and catcalling your nephew on the stage, and you’re staring at his naked chest, which, like his arms, is criss-crossed with scars of varying size and severity, and pretending that you’re only studying the elaborate crow tattoo on his shoulder and bicep. It was mostly covered by his t-shirt sleeve the other day, and you couldn’t get a good look at it. You’re definitely not noticing that his nipples are pierced—no, surely he’s too far away for those tiny silver barbells to even be visible—or that jewelry is hanging from his navel as well. It winks at you as he rolls his hips and his abs.

You’re jolted out of your reverie when he finally rips his pants off to reveal a bright red g-string made to look like an elephant’s face. The trunk serves exactly the function one might expect it to serve on such a garment, though it’s clearly meant to be worn over an erect penis. The crowd erupts in laughter as Dave, straight-faced, engages in some seemingly earnest gyrating and hip-thrusting at odds with his absurd garment. His fabric-covered dick swings freely, ridiculously as he moves.

Shit. Fuck. You’re in trouble.

==>

Stripping always gives you a natural high, whether it’s in front of a screaming crowd at the club or for a smaller, private audience. Knowing that Dirk is out there watching you—and catching the occasional glimpse of him past the bright stage lights—has you downright breathless as you exit the stage. You wonder idly if you’ve already come to see him as a kind of corrective father figure, for all that he’s barely older than you, and if the excitement burning in your chest is a misdirected response to his perceived approval. Less than a second later, you dismiss this thought as too uncomfortable and probably bullshit anyway. You’ve been spending too much time with Rose. Kid sees herself as an amateur Freud, and now she’s putting all kinds of nonsense pyscho-babble in your head.

You emerge onto the floor shortly, changed into attire more suitable for hands-on contact with customers—glittery red booty shorts and a pair of matching stilettos. (Branding is vital to building a strong client base, and red is your signature color.) You know you’re something of a niche commodity, but that doesn’t bother you. Sure, you’re not as cut as some of the other guys. Who gives a shit? Your body isn’t really what matters, at the end of the day. It’s your attitude that sells you. Confidence can make anyone sexy, even if it’s only a convincing facsimile.

Navigating through a crowd of handsy patrons, you reach Dirk’s table and throw yourself carelessly into a chair. He toasts you with his drink.

“That was interesting,” he says neutrally, but you’re already getting the hang of reading his impassive demeanor, and you think he actually liked it. “You usually make a lot of tips with that kind of act?”

You direct a faux-incredulous look his way. “Did you _see_ me when I left the stage?” You brush your shoulder off theatrically. “That crowd turned my little elephant buddy into a cash piñata. Just ‘cause you don’t know how to show a guy his efforts are worth a few bucks, shit.”

Dirk twitches slightly, which you’re pretty sure is as close as he gets to looking openly uncomfortable. “Sorry. I didn’t know if it would be weird.”

You shrug loosely. “Not any weirder than me inviting you here, I guess.” You involuntarily picture Dirk’s elegant fingers tucking a bill into the strip of fabric hugging your hip, his fingers brushing bare skin. No, not weird at all.

Kind of weird how not weird it is, though.

“I guess I wouldn’t really know, though,” you ramble on. “Not like I got any clue what normal family looks like.” You gesture to your current outfit, which barely qualifies for the description. “Prob’ly not this.”

“Normal’s overrated. This is just fine.” 

You don’t really know what to do with the feeling that blooms in your chest at his simple acceptance, so you ignore it and shift the conversation back. “For real though—since you asked—my shit’s not for everyone, but I got my regulars. Boss man makes me do more standard dances too, most times. He’s got these avant garde ideas all how stripping’s supposed to be ‘sexy’ or something.” You layer your words with faux disgust and employ exaggerated finger quotes.

Dirk snorts softly. “True artists are never appreciated in their own time.”

“You get me bro, you get me.” You pound a fist over your heart, and watch his eyes follow it to your chest and stay there. You clear your throat and change the subject. “Hey, so I realized we just talked about me the other day. Mad unfair, yo. Tell me something about you.”

Dirk takes a sip of his drink, and you suspect he’s buying time. “You’re still on the clock, right? Don’t you need to like… work the floor?”

“You dodging my question?” You grin and lean towards him. “You’re a customer. I can work you.” His eyebrows fly up, and abruptly it hits you how that definitely came off. “Shit, sorry. Professional hazard. I’m in work mode.” Yeah, that’s for sure why you just hit on your own fucking uncle.

“It’s already forgotten,” he says easily, after a pause. “If you want to know something about me, then ask.”

His relative openness is another reminder that he’s not your bro, despite the resemblance. The more time you spend looking at him, the less you see it, anyway. Bro was battered, hardened, battle-scarred in more than just body. You somehow doubt Dirk is completely free of old wounds, but on the outside he’s cleaner and shinier, with fewer hard edges. Polished. You’d almost say he’s beautiful. “Okay,” you say, leaning your chin on your hand and considering. “This your first time?”

“My first time?”

“In a strip club.”

“Yes.” He looks around, at the rowdy bachelorette party near the stage, the drunk regulars, the dancer gyrating on the stage and others on the floor, giving lap dances and flirting with customers. “Not really my scene. No offense.”

“None taken. It’s just my job, I don’t take it personal.” That’s true, but you’re suddenly anxious that he’s come someplace he doesn’t want to be just because you asked. “Are you like… cool being here though? I mean, comfortable?”

A thread of sincerity waves its way through his normal flat tones as he responds. “I’m fine, Dave. I’m glad I came.” He pauses, then adds, “I really liked your show.”

You’re not sure why that flusters you as much as it does—you’re definitely blushing, and grateful for the dim lighting on the club floor—but it might have something to do with the way his eyes flicked down your body as he said it. You wonder, not for the first time, if you’re in hot water. You don’t have a whole ton of face-to-face experience with family who isn’t constantly terrorizing you, but you think you’re probably not supposed to be cool with them checking you out. Or noticing the way their t-shirts fit close to their torso.

“Of fucking course you did. I’m downright captivating, my good bro,” you say, but your delay was a little too long to make it truly convincing.

Dirk looks like he’s about to reply when one of your regulars approaches from behind you. His cheek tics slightly as she slides her hands over your shoulders and down your chest.

“Dicky,” she whines in what she probably believes is a flirtatious and alluring manner. “I wanna dance.” You gently disengage from her light embrace and turn to chuck her lightly under the chin.

“I’m with another customer, Maureen,” you chide gently “It ain’t nothin’ personal. I’ll get around to you soon, babe. Don’t I always?”

“Soon?” she asks petulantly. She’s clearly a touch on the plastered side.

“I promise.” You smile up at her, turning on the charm. Her eyes slide down your nearly naked body, and the attention gives you a pleasant tingle, even though you know how shallow it is, that it’s not really about _you_. There are perks to this job.

When she’s gone back to her table, you return your attention to Dirk, and it might be your imagination, but he seems to be sitting a little more stiffly in his chair. You don’t ask about it.

“Sorry,” you say lightly. “I gotta go take care of her soon. I wouldn’t mind sittin’ here shooting the shit with you all night, but it’s my ass if I don’t keep up a decent rapport with my regulars. They might have borderline certifiably questionable taste but they are my bread and butter, ya feel?” You grin to pass off your self-deprecation as a joke.

“Don’t worry about it.” He takes a sip of his drink, and you can’t read him at all.

Still, you wish you could keep talking to him. “You said you don’t sleep much, right? I get off at two, if you wanna hang out then…?”

The corner of his mouth ticks up, flooding your chest with relief. “I’d like that.”

“Cool. Meet me out back, okay? That’s where the staff entrance is. We can get Taco Bell or somethin’. I’m always starving after work.”

“It’s a date.”

He bumps your extended fist, and you saunter off to lavish attention on Maureen, carefully not examining the way your stomach fluttered at his choice of words. The next time you glance over at his table, he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did u spot my subtle tribute to kc green


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> keep forgetting to say i have a homestuck/writing twitter @stridongs feel free to follow for updates and rambles

There’s a public park across from the Taco Bell. Once you have your bags of tacos and burritos and various other “Mexican” food items, and you find a picnic bench close enough to the street lamps for visibility, you spread it all out and dig in. You drove, and Dave offered to pay you back for his half, but the warm glow in your chest from buying him a meal was too much to resist, so you politely refused his stack of crumpled singles.

You’re hungry, but you watch him devour an entire burrito with only lightly disguised fascination before touching any food yourself.

“Do you eat like this all the time?” you ask, remembering only after the words leave your mouth how intrusive the question is—but he doesn’t seem to mind, so you continue. “Only you’re so…” Almost involuntarily, your eyes drop to his body. He’s fully dressed now, in a t-shirt and jeans, but the image of what’s underneath is burned into your memory.

“Skinny?” He takes another enormous bite and chews as he continues. You should probably find it disgusting, but you’re leaning towards endearing instead. “Fast metabolism, I guess. Plus I work out like a madman, ‘cause I’ll get fired if I don’t stay jacked.”

“Is that hard?”

He shrugs. “Not really. Nothing I ain’t been used to since I was like five.” He tosses that absurd statement off so casually that you’re almost afraid you’d look stupid asking about it.

“Five…?” you venture cautiously.

He gives you a guarded look (or at least you think it’s guarded—you’re both wearing shades despite the time of night) and then focuses his attention on his food. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” you accept. He relaxes instantly, and you allow comfortable silence to reign until he decides to continue.

“You saw my scars, right? Well, you can see some of ‘em now, I guess.” He gestures to his arms. You nod. “My bro—your brother—he had some extremely specific _ideas_ about parenting. The kind that CPS maybe woulda taken issue with, if he’d actually sent me to school.”

You take a bite of your Doritos Locos taco and chew, considering your response carefully. You have the distinct feeling that anything smelling of pity would only make him shut down. “I suspected as much, to be honest,” you say slowly.

“He was all about being prepared for anything and he thought I should be too. Made a stellar excuse for him to beat the shit out of me on a nigh daily basis. Guess I’m lucky preppers are almost as good at first aid as they are at hand to hand combat and stockpiling nasty canned food.” He rubs absently at a thick, ropey scar on his forearm.

“Those scars look like they came from something very sharp,” you point out.

“He liked swords,” he says flatly. “Claimed melee weapons would be more reliable than firearms, come the apocalypse, ‘cause they don’t need ammo. Really I think he probably thought they were more badass than guns. He cared a lot about that kind of bullshit.”

You digest that for a few minutes. He’s not looking at you, so you follow suit, but you’re intensely aware of his presence, and wondering how he must have felt when he heard out of the blue from this man’s brother.

“I don’t know if I would have returned my message, if it was me,” you say finally.

“I thought about ignoring it,” Dave admits. “But I never wanted to be like him, so it didn’t seem fair to assume you did, when you never even met him.” He looks thoughtful, then adds, “Also, I made the mistake of telling Rose about it, and she passive-aggressively tortured me until I said I would get back to you.” The way he smiles at the memory suggests to you that his sister may be the reason he hadn’t written off the concept of family altogether before you could even get to him.

==>

An hour later, all that’s left of the food is grease and bits of lettuce and cheese on crumpled paper wrappers, and Dave is sitting on the end of the table, lighting a cigarette. He takes a drag and flops onto his back as he exhales smoke, legs still dangling over the edge. You try not to stare at the strip of pale skin that’s visible where his t-shirt has ridden up onto his stomach.

“I would have thought you’d tan. For your job.” Apparently your dick has bypassed your brain and taken over control of your tongue.

“Nah man, that shit is fucking terrible for your skin. I’m better off ghost pale and smooth as an infant’s ass cheek. Besides, it’s not like my regulars show up to see me ‘cause they’re into the traditional male stripper look.” To make the point, he grins lazily and pushes his shirt further up his stomach, exposing his navel piercing. Up close, you can see it’s set with sparkling heart-shaped red stones (you’d guess garnets) at either end of the curved barbell, and dangling from the lower end is a charm. The shape formed by the stones that make it up is somewhat abstracted, but unmistakable.

“Is that a dick?”

“Fuck yeah it is,” Dave grins, dropping his hand but leaving his shirt distractingly rucked up. “Custom made, bruh.”

“You have impeccable taste. Where exactly do you acquire custom made cock jewelry?” You pick up the charm with your fingertips, just to examine it, but your fingers brush against his skin, and you see his abdominal muscles jump in reaction. You drop the penis charm like it burned you. Maybe you overstepped, but you calculate that it’s better to err on the side of not mentioning it than to apologize.

“I got a guy. Very reliable.” He’s all casual like he didn’t even notice, blowing smoke straight up into the night air.

“I’ll keep that in mind come Christmas.”

==>

TG: he liked my act thats how i know hes a man of taste and discernment  
TT: It certainly says something about him.  
TG: man what do you know youve never even seen my act  
TT: Not for lack of trying.  
TG: hahaha yeah that was a heroic effort  
TG: best fake id ive ever seen i couldnt have been more proud of my baby sis  
TG: not your fault i gave your picture to the bouncer and told him not to let you in under any circumstances  
TT: That was an unforeseen turn of events.  
TT: What kind of bouncer refuses to take bribes?  
TG: the kind i promised a bj to if he didnt let you in no matter what  
TT: Right. How could I forget?  
TT: In any case, that’s not what I was referring to, and you know it.  
TG: what else could you have been referring to  
TG: oh you mean how my uncle watched me get naked in front of a crowd and he liked it  
TT: I can’t believe you cracked my code.  
TG: yeah thats kinda weird i GUESS but ive been thinking about it and at the end of the day is it really that weird  
TG: i just met the guy its not like we played in a sandbox and shit our diapers together  
TG: or like he was buying me hot wheels for christmas and coming over to my house dressed like santa or whatever the fuck uncles do  
TG: yknow cause my bro was a literal psychopath who stole me from the hospital and didnt even tell me we had other family  
TT: Interesting that you chose to bring him up at this particular moment.  
TG: shut the fuck up rose its not like hes completely irrelevant to the subject  
TT: Didn’t you say Dirk looks like him?  
TG: not as much as i thought  
TT: Interesting.  
TG: dont you have homework  


==>

TG: you know what i realized  
TT: Hello, Dave.  
TG: hi dirk you know what i realized  
TT: What?  
TG: you never actually gave me the low down  
TG: the dirty deets if you will  
TG: the unauthorized biography of dirk strider  
TT: No, I suppose I didn’t.  
TT: But I meant it when I said you can ask me whatever you want to know.  
TG: now?  
TT: Sure.  
TG: ok im really going to hit you with the hard stuff are you ready  
TT: I’m always ready.  
TG: would you rather fight one horse sized duck or a hundred duck sized horses  
TT: Horse sized duck.  
TG: you sure didnt have to think about that  
TG: explain  
TT: I could never bring myself to kill a horse of any size, and would be forced to let them overtake me.  
TT: It would be a bloodbath, but at least the horses would live.  
TT: Of course, if I’m allowed to take a pacifist route, I’ll take the horses in a heartbeat. And I would make myself their leader.  
TG: so i guess you like horses  
TT: Yes.  
TG: cool  
TG: weirdest place you ever had sex  
TT: …  
TG: you said anything  
TT: Fair enough.  
TT: The bathroom at Starbucks.  
TG: hahahaha lame  
TG: you need to step up your weird sex game bro  
TG: luckily youre talking to the expert i can give you tips if you want em  
TT: I think I’ll pass.  
TT: It would be a little humiliating for me to get sex advice from my nephew.  
TG: thats fair  
TG: coward  
TG: so  
TG: getting serious for real this time  
TG: you said you were in foster care  
TT: Yes.  
TG: like with a family or in a home  
TT: Families, mostly.  
TG: more than one?  
TT: Yeah.  
TG: come on dude  
TG: are you intentionally making this process as excruciating as possible  
TT: Sorry.  
TT: I’m not used to talking about myself.  
TT: I was moved around a lot when I was younger, but I lived with the same family from 13 until I aged out at 18.  
TG: tell me about them  
TG: are you still in touch  
TT: Yes, I talk to them sometimes. Not terribly often.  
TT: An older woman raising a grandson the same age as me.  
TG: what are their names  
TT: Mrs. English and Jake.  
TG: did you get along with them  
TT: Mrs. English is a cool old lady. She was always nice to me, even though I probably wasn’t the easiest kid to raise.  
TG: how bout jake  
TT: That’s more complicated.  
TG: ok  
TG: did you go to college  
TT: Yeah.  
TT: Mrs. English is loaded so she bankrolled my tuition even though I’d aged out. I have a degree in mechanical engineering.  
TG: thats not what you do now though right  
TT: No. I always enjoyed programming as a hobby, and that’s what I ended up doing as a career. It’s more flexible.  
TT: Do I get to ask you questions now?  
TG: my breaks up gotta go  


==>

TG: you up  
TT: Usually.  
TG: sweet  
TG: i just got off work  
TG: bouncer had to throw a drunk coed out cuz she wouldnt stop tugging on my piercings like she was a spoiled english aristocrat with a nasty cold and no respect for the household staff and my nipples were the bellpull  
TG: she made a scene too he literally had to drag her out and she was screaming the whole time  
TG: it was a trip  
TT: Have you considered purchasing some less ostentatious jewelry?  
TT: Drunk women are like magpies, bro. They’ll grab for anything shiny.  
TG: no unacceptable trade off  
TG: if you cant see my nips from space then whats the fucking point of anything  
TG: anyway my poor abused vestigial baby feeders are pretty sore dude wanna bring me some ice  
TT: I don’t know what the fuck else family is supposed to be for, if it’s not that.  
TT: Pick you up behind the club?  
TG: sure  


==>

You come to the club to see him perform several more times, and pick him up to hang out after work many more than that. For once, your insomnia is a blessing rather than a curse—you’re always up when he texts. Once or twice you hang out when the sun is actually up. You’d see him every day if you weren’t afraid of scaring him off with overenthusiasm for his company. There’s something between you, a connection, like nothing you’ve ever felt with anyone, even Roxy. That’s what family is, you guess. You certainly didn’t feel like this about Mrs. English, no matter how much you love her, or how grateful you were to have a stable home.

Roughly one month after your first meeting, you're no longer able to deny the disastrous and deeply fucked up truth burning in your chest: you are falling for Dave. Once you allow your inner monologue to speak the words, they trigger a cascade of simultaneous trains of thought. One section of your brain starts detailing every possible reason why your feelings will inevitably lead to disaster; another starts calculating how to manage them so you don’t lose the delicate and precious familial bond you’ve only just found for the first time; yet another plots the seduction of Dave’s body and the pursuit of his heart. You’d like to shut all of them down and just enjoy Dave’s company like a normal fucking human being with a single ounce of chill, but if you had a handle on how to manage your overpowered, self-destruction-bent brain, your life would have gone very differently up til now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is already written and just needs to be edited so it should be up in the next couple of days


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey just so u know i love u guys and if i don't reply to comments it's only bc i have adhd and crippling social anxiety but i treasure each and every one

Usually when Dave comes out on the floor he heads straight for your table, if you’re there, but tonight he lets himself be waylaid by a bachelorette party. He puts on a helpless look in your direction as they buy him drinks, and you pretend not to be watching him. You’d like to think you’ve learned to read him pretty accurately by now, and he’s clearly enjoying the attention. Ugly, impotent jealousy burns in your chest as they touch him in the way you’ve been dying to for weeks and he turns his dazzling smiles on them. You’re approached by a couple of Dave’s coworkers, and consider buying a dance, but you have little actual interest in the activity and in fact believe you would find it uncomfortable, and thus dismiss it as on the “shooting oneself in the foot” side of the spectrum of petty revenges. Instead you memorize the face of each woman that touches Dave, filing it away in a corner of your mind. You likely won’t do anything to them—you’ve mostly grown past your Single White Female stage by now—but it’s comforting to imagine you might.

Dave’s neglect is likely not personal, anyway. Even if you believe you’ve detected a mutual attraction, even if said attraction is real and not the result of some particularly pathetic wishful thinking on your part, the likelihood that he’s actually considered doing anything about it is next to nil, given your genetic relationship. You may not care about it—it’s not as if Dave can get pregnant, so what does it actually matter?—but you’re aware that your lack of attachment to social norms is a relative anomaly. There’s no guarantee that it’s a family trait. You did, at least, solve the mystery of whether he likes dudes when he spontaneously decided to rate for you the makeout skills of each of his coworkers (even the straight ones. He is, evidently quite persuasive. Also, kind of a slut—his words, not yours.)

An attractive, scantily clad waiter asks if you would like another drink. You agree distractedly, your gaze carefully two feet to the left of where Dave is giving a lap dance to the bride to be.

==>

What feels like hours but is probably no more than twenty minutes later, Dave approaches your table and gives you a casual wave. “Hey, sorry bro, I wanted to say hi earlier, but you know how it is. Chicks crawling all over me. It’s a struggle to be so charming and popular.”

He started his act tonight in a full cowboy costume and ended in stockings and garters with a matching thong. He’s still wearing them, though he switched out the cowboy boots for his signature red heels before coming down on the floor. You watched an attractive brunette slip a series of singles into his garter belt earlier. They’re gone now; a waiter collected them for him and took them backstage. Up close, you can see that the rings through his nipples are set with red rhinestones to match his shoes. Looking at him makes you ache. He’s your nephew. He’s your _brother’s_ kid. You don’t care.

Before he can sit down, you take his wrist and draw him towards you. He stumbles a little like he didn’t expect it, but comes more easily than you would have thought. “I was thinking about how I didn’t tip you, that first time,” you say, realizing as the words leave your lips that you’re drunker than you thought; you’d downed a third drink by the time he made it over to you. The realization benefits you not at all as you barrel forward like a particularly horny rhinoceros, holding up a folded 20 dollar bill between the fingers of your other hand. “I want to make it up to you.”

There’s a slight, hesitant delay before he gifts you with a flirtatious grin, but you’d like to think it’s not only wishful thinking that makes you believe it looks different than the smiles he gave the bachelorettes. “You want a dance?” he asks.

“Yeah, is that okay?” 

“Abso-fucking-lutely it is, my dude.” Twisting his wrist in your grip until he’s holding yours instead, he places your hand on his waist as he straddles your lap, and a rush of desire hits you like a gut punch. What the fuck are you doing?

“Is this really okay?” he asks, as he braces his hand on the wall behind you and starts to roll his hips.

“Yeah,” you croak, and shakily tuck the twenty into his thong.

“‘Kay, cool. Hey, it’s dim as fuck in here, can you even see with these on?” Without even a stutter to the movement of his hips, he plucks your shades off your face, folds them and tucks them into your collar. “You should get your money’s worth, babe.”

You swallow convulsively. His face is so close. “Very considerate of you,” you manage. “I’d hate to get a bad deal.”

“With me it never is. Have you seen my Yelp reviews, motherfucker? I’m known for my top notch customer service.” 

He banters on a little longer, but he’s nearly naked and pressed against your body and it quickly becomes clear to both of you that there’s no way to pass this off as just for laughs. You’re breathless as he takes your hands and puts them on his thighs. The texture of the stockings stretched over his skin is alien to you, but fascinating.

At one point, as his weight is full on your lap and his hands are braced on your shoulders, you make the mistake of catching his eyes. The way he’s looking at you doesn’t seem practiced or professional. It’s intense, dramatically ratcheting up the intimacy of an already intimate act, and it’s impossible to pretend you aren’t affected. Maybe you’re just too drunk, but you have actual butterflies, and you lift your hands from his waist and fist them in your jeans to hide the shaking. Dave drops his gaze with incongruous demureness, but takes your hands and puts them back on his body.

After what feels like an eternity and paradoxically no time at all, the song ends. Your hands slip off his hips as he steps off your lap, leaving you bereft and oddly hollow. You’re both silent, too aware of the sexual tension thickening the air between you. He takes the bill you tucked into his underwear and runs it between his fingers absently. It’s hard to tell in the club lighting, but he looks flushed, and there’s an odd expression on his face.

“Uh, I should take my break,” he says slowly. “Thanks though. For the business.” Before you can reply, he’s turned and gone. The heat in the pit of your stomach is rapidly morphing into a sick kind of feeling, like you did something wrong. “Like” you did something wrong. You literally just paid your own nephew for sex work. Good job, Dirk, that’s fucked up even for you.

You have to fix this.

==>

You find Dave behind the club, leaning against the wall and smoking. He’s thrown an oversized hoodie over his stripper get up, but it’s unzipped, and the pale skin of his chest and abdomen glows under the sodium lights. You’re past the point of feeling guilty for noticing.

He’s hunched around his cigarette and doesn’t seem to see you there until you softly speak his name. He reacts like a startled rabbit, his eyes huge and body tensed defensively. When he registers your identity, he relaxes fractionally, then visibly forces himself into more casual body language.

“Dave,” you say again. “I’m sorry. I drank more than I realized. Did I overstep?”

“What? Nah.” He gestures with the hand holding the cigarette, and it leaves trails of smoke in the air. “It’s my job, right?”

“Yes, it is your job,” you say neutrally. “Only you don’t seem like… totally okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says, almost robotically.

“Okay.”

He shoves his free hand in his hoodie pocket and pulls something out, holding it in your direction. It’s the bill you just gave him. “You can have your money back.”

Kinda sounds like you did fuck up. You hesitate, don’t take it. “Why?”

“‘Cause I woulda done it for free.” His voice breaks a little. Your heart is pounding. You take the cash from his fingers, but capture his hand in yours before he can withdraw it. Dave looks at you, startled, then swiftly away again.

You step close enough to tip his chin up with your fingers—even in four-inch heels he’s still shorter than you. His eyes are huge and a little too shiny, and you understand why he still wears his shades all the time, because you can read everything in them. He’s still holding his cigarette; you take it from him gently and drop it on the ground, putting it out under your shoe. He takes a shaky breath, and you can feel his exhale against your face as you lean in, slowly enough to give him plenty of time to duck away if he doesn’t want it. He stays where he is, and you shift your hand to cup his jaw. His lips are soft and slightly chapped. When he opens for your tongue he tastes like smoke, and you couldn’t give less of a shit. You slide your other hand onto his waist, under the hoodie. It feels somehow indescribably different than when you touched him in the club.

“Is this really okay?” you murmur, intentionally echoing his earlier words. 

He puts his hands on the back of your neck and mumbles assent, pressing his lips to yours again. It’s suddenly clear that you should have been doing this the whole time. Why are you ever not kissing Dave? His skin is hot and smooth under your fingers, except for the raised lines of faded scars, and you want to map each one with your tongue. Maybe later; for now you settle for mapping the inside of his mouth and pressing his body against the wall behind him. He makes a soft, approving sound as you crush him into the concrete, and you feel like you’re going crazy. You kiss down his neck, sucking and biting, and he tilts his head to give you better access. His soft moans are the best sound you’ve ever fucking heard. You’ve never wanted anyone like this, not even when you were sixteen and soaked in pubescent hormones, watching Jake chop firewood in his tiny shorts with no shirt on.

The spell is broken when one of Dave’s coworkers appears through the staff entrance, and the two of you spring apart guiltily. You can’t speak to your own appearance, but Dave is flushed and mussed, his lips swollen, and even if the dude didn’t actually see you kissing, it’s obvious what you’ve been up to. He says something teasing and suggestive to Dave that you barely hear, and Dave mutters an excuse and disappears back into the club before you can stop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh shit it just got real


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello yes i'm alive... sorry i never intended to go THIS long between updates. i had major life shit going on for a while and it took up all my brain space but HOPEFULLY i'm back now with a slightly more regular update schedule fksdljgskdg. god. i missed these idiots hope u enjoy

TT: Dave.  
TT: Are you okay?  
TT: I’ve been trying to give you space, since it seemed like you were pretty freaked out by what happened.  
TT: I know I have a tendency to be overbearing at times, and I have been trying to work on that. I don’t want to overwhelm you.  
TT: But I’m kind of worried that it’s been so long since I’ve heard from you. Maybe we should talk about it.  
TG: talk about what  
TT: Dave.  
TG: fine  
TG: i dont see why it has to be such a big deal though  
TG: we kissed so what  
TG: i kiss a lot of people  
TT: I don’t really need to spell out exactly why it is, in fact, a big fucking deal, do I?  
TG: nah man i understand why incest is a thing that needs to get talked about  
TG: i meant lets not make a big thing of this  
TG: its just something that happened one time and doesnt need to happen again so theres no reason to have a big gnarly discussion about our feelings or whatever  
TG: we can just move on no problem right  
TT: Oh.  
TT: Understood.  
TT: Are we good, then?  
TG: yeah bro we good  
TT: Okay.  
TT: Cool.  
TT: Good.

You go to put your phone down and fumble it. It clatters to the floor, and you stare at it for a good thirty seconds before picking it up and setting it carefully on the edge of the coffee table.

This is fine. You’ll be fine. It’s not as if you expected him to fall into your arms after he ran off and disappeared for three days. No use dwelling on what’s done. You’ve been far too self-indulgent the past few weeks, neglecting work to give your attention to Dave, and you have projects to complete. You reach robotically for your laptop. This will be good. You can get a lot more work done now, without distractions.

==>

TG: dirk  
TG: hey dirk  
TT: What?  
TG: just checkin you aint dead or nothing  
TG: havent seen you around at hard bodies in a couple weeks  
TG: not like i was looking  
TT: I’ve been busy with work.  
TG: oh  
TG: well youve been missing some prime material  
TG: like for example a fully produced cabaret number to my own original dubstep remix of the wii shop channel theme  
TG: an mlp:fim themed dance starring me as miss rainbow dash herself  
TG: but my personal fave was the night i started in a full raccoon fursuit and slowly stripped off everything but the head  
TG: i sweated like a forty year old accountant running the boston marathon and barely made any tips but it was worth it for the stunned silence in the club  
TG: those plebes dont appreciate my art like you do  
TT: I guess not.  
TG: hey are you ok dude  
TT: I’m fine.  
TG: ok  
TG: cool  
TG: catch you later i guess  
TG: i got responsibilities and whatnot to tend to cant be jawing with you all night  
TT: Later.

You shove your phone into your back pocket and heave a sigh. Something is definitely up with Dirk, no matter what he says. You haven’t seen him in weeks, not since that thing happened, and you’d gotten used to him hanging around you practically every other day. Serves you right to expect someone to stick by your obnoxious ass.

==>

Stepping from the glaring afternoon sun into Sollux’s storefront, you blink as your eyes adjust to the dim light. There’s no one behind the gleaming, lovingly polished display case that serves as a front counter, which is no surprise—customer service has never been even close to Sollux’s strong suit. It doesn’t need to be. He’s talented enough to have developed a loyal customer base despite his caustic manners, and he was already loaded from careful saving and a decade of work in the tech industry before changing lanes to body mods. You met him when you decided to blow your first week’s earnings on your very first tattoo (an elaborate lower back number featuring an archaeopteryx fossil embellished with the word “slut” in flowing script. At the time you felt it was an appropriate way to christen your new career in exotic dancing, and you are still inclined to think your past self was onto something.)

Even though no one is there to see, you bend over the display case in a way you know accentuates your ass and peer at the body jewelry illuminated by lights within the case. It’s a mix of high-end third party merchandise and handmade work crafted by Sollux himself. You’re still in position when the older man trudges in from the back room.

“Who is that even for,” he comments acidly, without even so much as a hello. “I can’t even see your third rate ass from here, shithead.”

You give it a little wiggle. “You never know, someone might come in, and then they’d have a prime view. I was in the Boy Scouts, you know. Always be prepared.” You weren’t, of course, but it’s a good line.

“Don’t seduce my customers. What do you want?”

“These.” You tap a finger on the glass, indicating a pair of nipple rings. They’re pretty basic, but the jewelry itself is beside the point. Sollux is always a little more willing to put up with you when you buy something from him.

You watch him slip the rings into a baggie and ring you up, then slide them back across the counter with an exaggerated eyebrow waggle. “You wanna install these bad boys for me?”

Sollux gives you an unimpressed look, expelling air through his nose. “You can do those at home. I know, because I’m the one who sold you the tool for it.”

“So?” You flash a flirtatious grin. “I like how you do it.”

He heaves a sigh that you know for a fact is at least half put on. “Fine, but I’m charging you. Shirt off, ass on the table.” Palm flat on the center of your chest, he shoves you in the right direction, and you hop up with a childish giggle. Your shirt lands on the floor seconds later. Sollux works fast, gripping each barbell tightly at one end and unscrewing with the other hand.

“So businesslike,” you comment with a half-feigned pout. “Can’t you show a guy a little romance?”

“I’m done.” It doesn’t need to be said; that’s his way of telling you to get off the table. Instead, you toe off one of your shoes against the side of it, letting it drop to the floor, and run your toes up and down his calf. He doesn’t react, which only encourages you.

“I’ve got a sketch for you.” Your casual tone as you slip it from your back pocket doesn’t match the movement of your foot. Sol’s eyes are unmoved behind his tinted lenses. You slide your hand slowly from his bicep down his arm all the way down to his hand, pulling it toward you so you can tuck the folded scrap of paper into it. 

He rolls his eyes and huffs out an unimpressed sigh that you, with experience, recognize as a cover as he unfolds the sketch. It’s crude, in more than one sense of the word, but it gets the idea across.

“Yeah, I can make this,” he says in deceptively flat tones, as you press the sole of your foot against his leg. “It won’t be cheap, though.”

“I thought maybe you could give me a friends and family discount,” you drawl, sliding an arm around his shoulders and attempting to draw him closer. He shuffles a bare inch forward, which might as well be a mile, for him.

Sollux snorts. “Fuck you, dickwipe. Your friends and family discount is the gift of my precious time wasted on your bullshit,” he counters. “And just in case it wasn’t clear, I’m not talking about the commission, I’m talking about hanging out with you.”

You stifle a laugh. “Aw man, come on, don’t neg me. You know it gets my meat hard.”

He glances down, seemingly involuntarily, then jerks his gaze back up to your face. “Do you just never shut your cocksucking mouth.”

“Maybe if you gave me some incentive,” you offer helpfully, leaning in. Instead of the kiss you’re going for, his hand comes up lightning fast and claps over your mouth, and your dick twitches so hard it must be visible through your pants. Sollux pushes you onto your back, splayed on the table, one hand still pressed firmly over your mouth so it stifles your gratified moan, and his other hand grabs the newly installed jewelry and tugs. As a pro, he knows exactly how hard to tug so that it hurts, but won’t cause long term damage to the piercing. That’s what you like about him, you’re thinking as his thigh presses borderline uncomfortably hard between your splayed legs and blissfully wipes out any lingering thoughts of fingers grazing your waist and gentle, seeking lips on yours.

==>

When your phone starts its insistent buzzing, you’re so immersed in your code that the sound jolts your entire body, and you scramble in an undignified manner for the accursed rectangle that pulled you from your pleasantly mindless daze. Your heart jolts into the back of your throat when you see Dave’s name and picture on the screen, leaving your voice thick and hoarse when you answer.

“Yes?”

The voice that comes through is not Dave’s. It’s monotone, lisping, a little nasal, and entirely unfamiliar to you. “Is this Dirk.”

“It is. Who is this?” A slightly aggressive note creeps into your voice against your will. Sleep deprivation (even more than you’re used to) has evidently eroded your self control.

“Friend of Dave’s,” the strange voice says shortly. “Come get his wasted ass. He won’t stop talking about you and I couldn’t give less of a shit. I’m definitely not closing early just to babysit him because he doesn’t have the alcohol tolerance of an underweight toddler.”

Your pulse is climbing, and you desperately want to know what he said about you, but you’re not about to admit that to this random festering asshole, so you stick to asking for an address.

The butterflies in your stomach could not be more pathetic, you silently berate yourself as you drive. You’re mooning over him and meanwhile he likely sees you only as a weird buddy/uncle at best and a single night’s regret at worst. He hasn’t been torturing himself like you have; he’s been busy devising absurd strip acts and probably barely remembers what happened—and if he does, it’s only to regret it. Typical of you to fuck up the most important relationship in your life by reaching for too much.

Your internal monologue is interrupted by the GPS on your phone informing you calmly that your destination is on the left. You pull into a deserted parking lot, dimly realizing that you’re not far from Dave’s club. There’s only one storefront still illuminated at this hour; its sign reads simply, “TATTOO PIERCING”. Not difficult to deduce how Dave knows the man who called you. You hear his voice echo in your memory: _I got a guy. Very reliable._ Not for the first time, you wonder how far their relationship stretches beyond the professional.

The door jangles as you enter the apparently empty shop, and shortly a tall, thin man in odd, mismatched glasses shoves his way gracelessly through a closed door behind the counter.

“You’re Dirk,” he says.

“Well deduced,” you reply. He’s not much to look at, and surprisingly devoid of tattoos or body jewelry.

He squints at you, and you notice that his irises are mismatched behind his tinted glasses—one black, one a creepily pale grey. “You’re his… uncle, right? He mumbled something about that.”

You hesitate, uneasy with the knowledge that a stranger you’ve never heard of before tonight (who nevertheless seems to have some kind of intimate relationship with Dave) has private information about you. “That’s right,” you finally admit, with some reluctance.

He looks you up and down, seeming unimpressed, and you suppress an offended bristle. “Condolences on your shared DNA.”

“Condolences on your haircut,” you return coolly. The man flips a halfhearted bird in your direction and gestures you to follow.

“Dave’s back here. Selfish asshole passed out on my couch.” You follow him to a cramped back room and find Dave sprawled across a threadbare couch. He’s wearing ripped jeans and a cropped t-shirt that bares his taut stomach, and he’s unfairly gorgeous, even dead drunk and drooling on himself. The stranger nudges him roughly with one knee. “Wake up, assface.” Dave twitches and mutters something unintelligible. His friend releases an extremely put-upon sigh. “DS. Wake up. I’m not carrying you so unless your uncle is willing to sling you over his shoulder like a sack of useless potatoes you are going to have to get your own ass to his car.”

You wave the guy off impatiently and kneel beside the couch, gently shaking Dave’s shoulder. His body heat travels like a shock up your arm from your hand, and when his eyes open and focus on your face, your breath catches in your throat.

“Dirk?” he mumbles. “You’re here.”

“Come on, Dave, it’s time to get you home.”

“Home,” he echoes. “You’re my uncle.”

Your lip twitches. “That’s right. Can you get up?”

“I can totally get up.” You have some doubts about that assertion. He is absolutely trashed.

“Okay. I’ll help you.” Sliding a hand behind his back, you help him sit up. It’s a clumsy affair to get him to the car, and Dave’s friend doesn’t help you at all, but you manage. He tries to buckle his seatbelt but keeps missing the slot, so you take over, strapping him in like a child. He falls asleep again as you drive, leaving you alone with the tension in the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry the first person dave boned in this fic was sollux and not dirk


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no idea how long this streak is gonna last but i am having FUN
> 
> thank you guys soooo much for comments and kudos it literally keeps me going
> 
> EDIT: added a few paragraphs at the end to round out the chapter!!!

“Hey thanks,” Dave mumbles as you help him out of the car. “For comin’ to get me. Sollux is a real dick sometimes. Wouldn’t let me crash on his couch.”

“You’re welcome,” you say stiffly, too aware of his proximity.

“Hey, where are we?” Dave looks around, seeming to abruptly take in his surroundings as you’re stepping through the front door.

“My apartment. You’ve been here before, Dave.”

“Oh yeah.” A pause. “Why?”

“Because you’re a mess and I can take care of you more easily here.” You’ve been to Dave’s place a few times, and it’s surprisingly cushy, but your place is bigger and cleaner and almost certainly has more food. It just makes sense.

“Oh. That’s so nice. You’re so nice to me. I’ve been such a dick to you.”

You hesitate, because maybe he’s right, but… You pat him awkwardly on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve been a dick right back.”

“No…” he says plaintively. “I deserved it. I’ve been such a dick to you.”

You try not to smile, because he looks genuinely miserable. “You said that already, Dave. About ten seconds ago.”

“It’s true!” he insists. “I’m sorry. I’m a dick.” He shifts around to hug you awkwardly. After a moment’s hesitation—you’re not really a hugger—you return the hug, patting his shoulder carefully in the way you’ve seen men do in movies and TV. He keeps hugging you for longer than you expected, and you’re frankly enjoying the full body contact with the object of your desire, but you’re not sure where to go from here.

“Dave?” He doesn't answer, so you try again. “Dave? Are you okay?” Finally he leans back so you can see his face. To your dismay, it’s a little teary. You’re about to address that fact when he leans in again, without warning, and his mouth lands clumsily on yours.

What.

This is everything you wanted, but the timing is less than ideal. You don’t feel comfortable proceeding without more information, but it takes every ounce of your considerable mental fortitude to put your hand on Dave’s shoulder and gently push him away.

“What are you doing, Dave?”

“Kissin’ you,” he slurs. “Dumb question. You never been kissed before? ‘Course you have. I was there.”

“ _Why_ are you kissing me,” you clarify. He sways toward you, and you lean away. “You said you didn’t want to make it a ‘big thing’. You gave me the distinct impression that you had little to no interest in kissing me again, let alone doing anything else.”

“Mmm?” he acknowledges distractedly, eyeing your lips. “I don’t think I said that.”

“That is almost exactly what you said, Dave. Word for word.” You’re not sure why you’re trying to talk him out of it.

“Is it?” He shrugs. “Don’t remember. Can I kiss you now?”

Yes. Please. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you manage painfully. “You’re drunk.” He sways again, this time not toward you but just kind of in a general, unbalanced way. “Very drunk. Let’s sit down.” You steer him toward the couch. Once seated, he leans heavily on you, and your heart squeezes with longing. “Why now?” you ask softly. You’re more wondering out loud than expecting an answer, but Dave shifts against you, pressing his face into your shoulder.

“Just wanted to,” he mumbles into your sleeve.

“But you didn’t before,” you say, striving for impassivity, not wanting to embarrass yourself even when you doubt Dave will have a clear memory of this conversation tomorrow.

“Nah, I did,” he corrects casually. “It’s just so compl... comp _li_. Cated.”

“What’s complicated?” Unable (or maybe unwilling) to quell your urges any longer, you pet his hair once, gently. It’s as soft as it looks.

He makes an endearingly huffy sound. “ _Everything_. I don’t like complicated. I’m no good at complicated.”

“You’re going to need to help me out here, Dave. I still have no idea what you’re getting at.” He groans and slides down on the couch, landing with his head in your lap, looking up at you. This is fucking killing you, but you let him stay there.

“So, if we kissed…” He trails off, looking confused. “We did kiss. So, if we kissed more. And I let you, uhhh. Fff. Fuck me…” You abruptly cough and clear your throat for wholly unrelated reasons. “Which I would, ‘cause… I would. And that would be fine, ‘cause I’m _goooood_ at sex. But then after.” He stops talking and stares at the ceiling.

“After…?” you prompt, heart pounding unbearably.

“After, it’s _complicated_ , right? Cause you ain’t just some guy. You’re like… you matter.” He fidgets and shuts his eyes, as if that’s an uncomfortable admission even in his inebriated state. “After, I have to be good at more than sex. And I’m not.”

You let that sit for several seconds, your brain running calculations. “Why do you think that?” you ask finally.

Dave mashes a hand over his face. “I’ve never had nothin’ like a normal family, Dirk. Not even close,” he begins, semi-non-sequitorially. His hand is covering his mouth and muffling his voice, so you gently peel it away. Now you’re just kind of holding his hand, so you figure you might as well keep doing that as long as he’ll let you. He continues talking like he doesn’t notice. “My bro was a… fuckin’. Psycho. M’mom’s a drunk. Not like that even matters, since I didn’t even know she existed ’til I was 20. My sister…” He goes quiet, and you lace your fingers with his, offering quiet support. “I’d die for my sister, but she’s prob’ly better off without me. What kinda role model am I to be around a _kid_ like that? Some loser who couldn’t hack it as a real grown up and dropped out of school to strip full time? Like she doesn’t already think she’s too smart or mature or some… something to just… _be_ a kid, like I never got to be. She don’t even get how fuckin’ good she’s got it, and there’s no explainin’ it to her even if I knew how to try. She’s too smart. Smarter than me. She should have a better brother than me.”

“Dave…” An unusual amount of emotion has crept into your voice. He barrels on, heedless.

“It’s just a matter of time ‘til I fuck up bad with her and her mom doesn’t want her to talk to me anymore. Just like it was nothin’ but a ticking clock ‘til I fucked this up, this whatever this is, uncle-nephew thing,”—he gestures vaguely in the direction of your face—“like I had a checklist of family dysfunction and the only box I hadn‘t ticked off yet was incest—”

“Dave,” you cut him off firmly, and he jumps guiltily, as if startled by your voice. You wait for him to look at you before you continue, so he will see the sincerity in your eyes. “You haven’t fucked anything up with me.”

You see naked relief on his face for a bare second before it snaps closed again. “I will, though,” he says stubbornly, his voice small and defeated.

You’re aching, soul-deep, wanting to tell him that he has more worth than he knows, wanting to show him, knowing he won’t believe it. You trace the curves and contours of his beloved face with your fingertips, feeling out every detail, the similarities and the differences from your own, just like you did the first time you saw him. You knew even then. The seeds of this feeling were settling in your heart, even then. “I want to touch you more than anything,” you mutter.

“So touch me,” he mumbles, not meeting your eyes. Your other hand is still clasped in his, and he brings it to his chest, spreading and flattening it. You can feel one of his nipple rings through the thin fabric of his shirt. Your eyes stray helplessly to his bare stomach and lock on the trail of fine blonde hairs leading into his jeans before you forcibly jerk them back to his face. He’s watching you now, his gaze soft and lips parted.

You want him so badly you can hardly breathe, and he is right here on your lap, _right here_ , warm and breathing under your hands, wanting you back. Your hand shifts a little, involuntarily, grazing over his nipple through the layer of cotton, and he makes the _softest_ sound, a moan so tiny you’re not 100% sure it actually happened, and you are losing your god damn mind. _Just a little_ , you tell yourself, you just want to know if that noise was real, so you push your hand under his shirt to touch directly, squeezing his nipple gently between thumb and forefinger. He whines, oh God, closes his eyes and whines and squirms under your hands, and he is so beautiful, and you have never been this hard in your life. You’ve never slept with a guy with piercings before, but your obsessive internet research informed you that the jewelry makes nipples more sensitive in most cases. That appears to be true for Dave. Fascinating. You try a little tug and he moans for real, unmistakably.

“That’s so good,” he praises, setting off fireworks in your chest. “Can you kiss me now? Please. Please kiss me.”

He sounds so plaintive that you can’t say no. You nod, but then, deciding that doesn’t indicate sufficient enthusiasm, say, “Yes. Yes.” Once you’ve helped him sit up, he dives for your lips, but you duck back, eliciting a confused and disappointed “Dude what” from Dave.

“Patience,” you chide him, holding his face in both hands to keep him in position as you lean in slowly, barely grazing his lips with yours and making him whine impatiently. You ignore his protests and deepen the kiss at your own excruciatingly slow pace, until he’s melting in your lap, soothed by your hands stroking his hair and neck and back, and passively receiving the deep strokes of your tongue. Once you’ve explored his mouth to your satisfaction (for now; you can’t imagine ever kissing him enough to be truly satisfied), your lips seek other vistas, kissing along his delicate jaw before settling on his throat. Your hands go roaming too, smoothing down his back and flirting with the waistband of his jeans before moving on to explore his stomach and chest. You map his scars by touch as he pants into your ear, clutching your shoulders. His neck tastes like salt and the bitter tang of cheap beer, and you lick and suck and bite every inch of it before you settle at the junction of his neck and shoulder and latch on like a fucking vampire, matching the pull of your mouth with gentle tugs on his nipple rings. You want to mark him, leave a dark stain behind to show him and everyone else that he’s yours—

He makes a harsh, stuttering cry, and you feel sudden warmth and wetness where his lower half is pressed into yours. Oh.

Shit.

Right on cue, you feel your phone buzzing in your back pocket.

“Whazzat,” Dave mumbles from where he’s slumped against your shoulder. You awkwardly retrieve the offending device and check the screen with little surprise.

“Hi, Rox. If you aren’t in urgent need, can I call you back? I have a situation that requires my attention presently.”

“Aw, man.” Dave sits up on your lap, pawing at the wet spot on his jeans. Roxy is mid-exclamation when you hang up and drop your phone on the couch.

“I messed myself,” Dave says plaintively.

“I know, Dave.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

He’s so cute, what the fuck. “I know. Why don’t you let me get up so I can get you something to change into.”

“Oh. Okay.” Rather than climb off you to sit on the couch, he just kind of slides onto the floor. You decide to let him stay there while you retrieve a clean pair of boxers plus an old t-shirt and some sweatpants from your dresser. Returning, you help him to his feet and put the clothes in his hands. 

“Why don’t you go in the bathroom and clean yourself up. You can shower if you want, but please put these on before you come back out.” He looks sleepy and still pretty impaired, so you steer him in the direction of the bathroom. He goes willingly, and when the door is shut behind him you slump back onto your couch and pick up your phone for lack of a better distraction. Roxy has apparently been texting you since you hung up on her.

TG: oh shit who was that  
TG: was that dave???  
TG: omg dirk what r u doin with dave at 3am.....  
TG: or should i say WHO r u doin..........  
TG: *wonk*  
TG: dirk  
TG: hey dirk  
TT: I hang out with Dave at 3 AM all the time, Roxy. He works nights.  
TG: was he working tonight??  
TT: That’s hardly relevant.  
TG: lol sure  
TG: well im ok i have all my limbs intact and nothins on fire thanks for waiting on my answer before you HUNG UP on me  
TT: Sorry.  
TT: I really do need to go, though. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?  
TG: sure no probz  
TG: have fuuuunnn ;D

Dave crashes through the bathroom door, thankfully dressed in the clothes you provided, which are adorably over-large on him. You barely have time to be grateful that he didn’t forget to put clothes on at all before you’re punched in the chest by a rush of possessive fire at the sight of him in _your_ clothes. Your flagging boner is back full force, and you hurriedly tip a throw pillow onto your lap in case he notices.

“Thanks f’r the clothes, bruh,” he slurs, weaving toward the couch. He plops down next to you, leaning heavily on your shoulder. “Thizz nice.”

You grunt agreement, carefully draping an arm around his shoulders. His hair is still wet from the shower and you can feel it starting to soak into your shirt, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Within seconds you hear his breathing change. “Dave?” you try cautiously. No response. He’s out. You heave a sigh and settle into the couch, letting yourself enjoy his closeness until the urgent call from your poor neglected dick is too much, and you escape to the bathroom. Just the sound of the water starting up as you crank the shower on releases some of the tension from your shoulders. You’re grateful Dave is asleep, giving you the freedom to engage in your self-soothing ritual at your leisure. Feeling a touch too guilty to really savor the experience, you do allow yourself to replay the feel of Dave’s skin and hair, his heat and scent and the desperate sounds he made for you as you stroke yourself to a quick but satisfying orgasm.

When you’re done, he’s exactly where you left him, snoring softly and drooling onto a pillow. You stand in the dark and watch him sleep for longer than you’d care to admit, and when you’ve somewhat satisfied your hunger for every scrap of him you can get, you carefully gather him up (he stirs and murmurs in his sleep, but doesn’t wake) and carry him to your bedroom, where you tuck him into your bed. You’re not likely to sleep much, given that you rarely do even when the love of your life isn’t passed out drunk in the next room, so he may as well have the cushier berth. Besides, if you take the couch, it will be harder for him to sneak out without alerting you, as you calculate he is likely to try.

Sitting heavily on the couch, you eye your laptop, still on the coffee table where you left it when your coding was interrupted by Dave’s friend’s call. It’s tempting to lose yourself in work again, but you’re exhausted from dealing with Dave and all the emotions associated with him, and with post-orgasm hormones still saturating your brain, you might actually be able to get some sleep. Your heavy eyelids and aching bones win out, and as you drift off, the last thing you’re aware of is deep satisfaction at the knowledge that Dave is where he belongs, safe and secure in your bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;D


End file.
